


Holding Back

by nomelon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Hotel Sex, Hotels, Hunting, Older Man/Younger Woman, POV Second Person, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-03
Updated: 2010-03-03
Packaged: 2017-10-07 16:50:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/67104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomelon/pseuds/nomelon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jo and John, hunting and motel rooms. A life shared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holding Back

**Author's Note:**

> Dedication: written for the always delightful dreamlittleyo who asked for _Jo/John! Prompt = Compromised!_ I took that to mean two parties making concessions rather than, say, a secret undercover mission that had been been compromised, although that probably would have been cooler. &gt;.&gt;

He always gets like this when he's pissed off. He doesn't raise his voice, but it gets low and steely and, honestly, you'd probably be a little afraid if you didn't know him so well. John Winchester is the very definition of a man not to be fucked with. You've had to patch together his history from secondhand stories and all the things John isn't saying about his past. For instance, you know Sam chose school over hunting for a couple of years and you get the distinct impression there was plenty of yelling back then, followed by a long period of radio silence, but John's never raised his voice to you. Not yet, not unless he's yelling instructions or warnings in the middle of a fight, although you wonder sometimes why he's holding back.

His face is flushed, and you can't tell if it's from anger or whiskey or if his cheeks and the tip of his nose are still pink from the sub-zero winter outside. His hair is a little damp now that the snowflakes have melted. Not optimal conditions for hunting Wendigo by any stretch of the imagination, but people were dying in this crappy little one horse town halfway up a mountain in the middle of nowhere, and you just couldn't afford to leave it any longer.

It doesn't matter how he paints it, you did what you had to do. It was risky and foolhardy, yeah, sure, you get it. But the two of you have been hunting together for months now, getting close to a year. Did he really expect you just to stand back and let it happen? Every time you get hurt or do something he thinks is stupid, like saving his goddamn _life_, you have to suffer through The Talk. And you get it, he was worried, not that he'd ever just come out and say it. You know him well enough to know that he hates to feel out of control and hates to think of you risking yourself for him. It's stupid -- and you think somewhere deep down he has to know that -- because nothing about hunting is safe. The two of you are tied together by invisible threads you could try and give a name to, like duty or loss or revenge or maybe it's nothing more complicated than common goals and murky back-stories, but the thing is you're not even sure why you're doing it anymore. You just know it's in your blood. It's all you've ever wanted to do. But you don't want to do it alone.

You interrupt him because you've had enough. You're tired of being the little girl, tired of always having to listen to him talk. You know you're pushing him, getting under his skin and scratching with ragged nails, but you're cold and tired and your knee is killing you, and all you want to do is drink enough whiskey to take the edge off and fall into bed for about twelve hours straight. You don't want to argue, not really, but you've had enough of his bullshit. You got between John and a Wendigo and you took that mother down. You tell him you'd do it again in a heartbeat and you tell him to get off your back. You hold his gaze and you don't back down but you really hope that he does soon because you're too goddamn tired to be doing this right now.

He's furious. You can see it in his eyes and you're ready for it, squaring off for whatever he's got to throw at you, but when he grabs your shoulders like maybe he wants to shake some sense into you, he looks more freaked out than you've ever seen him. His voice breaks on your name and he sucks in a shuddering breath, his eyes shining bright. You know inside that second that he's going to kiss you, and your heart thuds against your ribcage, every inch of your skin alive and aware, and your vision greys around the edges. All you can see is him.

His mouth on yours is warm and wet and demanding. It shocks you still in his arms, because you didn't ever think that this was going to happen. He holds you close with one arm around your waist and his big hand cradling your skull. He makes you feel tiny and protected and these are truths that will never pass your lips. Your body wakes up before your brain does and you're pulling him closer, using handfuls of the thick, damp corduroy of his jacket. You give him everything you have, all the things you've never been able to tell him, and when your back hits the wall, you wrap your legs around his waist, ignoring the twinge in your knee, and you get your hands inside his coat, the tips of your fingers finally warming up between layers of flannel. Your belt buckles catch and he shifts his hips so they part with a ching of metal. He's right there, his whole body pinning you to the wall, and you can feel him, hard and thick through his jeans. It's embarrassing, the way you're panting, the way you're rubbing yourself against him, but common sense and restraint have never been your allies where John is concerned.

His hands are under your ass, keeping you snug against him, moving you just where he wants you, his thumbs grazing the bare skin of your hips just above your jeans. You're dizzy with it. You've never gone straight from kissing to fucking with a guy before in your entire life, but more than anything you want him moving inside you, his weight above you, his hands on your skin, and if you don't get it, you think you're just far gone enough to cry in frustration.

You wriggle out of your jeans, and he doesn't make it easy for you, barely giving you enough room to move, and he just keeps kissing you, biting at your lips, your throat, the point of your chin, his beard scratching your cheeks. You end up on the bed in just your panties, with your shirt unbuttoned and your vest pushed up under your arms. John's lost his coat and his overshirts, but you still feel naked, laid out for him while he takes his time over you.

He asks you if you're sure, and you'd have been surprised if he didn't, but you're so ready for him that your stomach feels hollowed out and you ache and throb between your legs. He really needs to be touching you if only to stop it from hurting. Your face is hot and tight and you can't answer, so you grab his hand and push it down to where you need it. He leaves your panties on, sliding his hand inside, and the first touch of his fingers makes you bite on your lip and whimper as you push your face into the curve of his shoulder, lifting your hips for more. His fingers are big and rough, but he's gentle with you, teasing you over and over, making you come with a gasp and a shudder before he's even slid his fingers inside you. You're so sensitive everywhere he's touching you, and you can feel him shifting his hips, nudging against your thigh, looking for a little pressure to take the edge off. You go for his belt buckle because you want to touch him, you want to pull him on top of you and take everything he has to give, but he stops you.

"Promise me," he says, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers over your skin. "Promise me you won't ever do that again."

You swear at him, dig your nails into his shoulder and call him a bastard. Your flare of anger is bright and blinding, but that's all it is. A flare. His hand is still moving between your legs, warm and slippery and so fucking good, and there are so many ways that what he's doing isn't fair. If this is his idea of a deal-breaker, if this whole thing is his twisted idea of bribery...

You wonder if there's anything you wouldn't do for John, but you know that you don't see the world in black and white like he does, and you can't make a promise to him you have no intention of keeping.

"You know I can't do that," you say. "If I asked you to stop looking out for me, if I told you to save your own skin instead of watching my back, would you do it?"

Muscles clench in his cheeks and he doesn't answer you, not that you expected him to. What you get instead are more kisses, hard and overwhelming. You drink them down, letting him lead.

In the morning you wake up hungry and stiff, and the tip of your nose is cold, but John is a warm, solid presence at your back, his arms wrapped around you. The small, important fact that he's still there, that he didn't try and redraw some shaky approximation of a boundary between the two of you by going back to his own bed makes you duck your head and smile where you know he can't see you. You'd kill for coffee and some hash browns and you really, really need to get to a drug store, but John is waking up behind you, shifting against the pillow, his hand wandering on your skin. He's hard against you and you nudge your ass back against him, making him groan.

You watch the muscles in his forearms as he tightens his arms around you, pulling you back into the curve of his body, and you think that you want to wake up this way every morning, you think that he makes you crazy in a whole bunch of inventive ways, and you think maybe you're in love with him.

He says your name, his voice rough and scratched like it always is when he wakes up, and it's a question, it's a plea, it's a memory of last night, it's a statement of intent. You turn to face him, you slide your fingers into his thick, soft hair, and you think that your hash browns can wait.

**Author's Note:**

> <http://nomelon.livejournal.com/156298.html>


End file.
